


Conquering the East

by Thalaba



Category: League of Extraordinary Gentlemen
Genre: AU, F/M, Gen, Racism, survived the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thalaba/pseuds/Thalaba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In my head-canon they'd make a cute murderous couple...</p>
    </blockquote>





	Conquering the East

**Author's Note:**

> In my head-canon they'd make a cute murderous couple...

When Sanderson Reed had first been indiscriminately dismissed to this heathen kingdom—to play watchdog and nursemaid to Moriarty’s spoiled pet Dorian as he pawned off reasonable good looks and financial connections as an ambassador in the British Embassy—he had been in far too much psychological distress to even ponder the possible benefits of the situation. Ingesting some potentially mass-producible, invisibility-causing, monster-creating serum had not been the high point of Reed’s criminal career. An unexpected development was how Moriarty had quickly explained the attack in Mongolia, right before pressing Reed with a small flask and ordering him to earn his pay. Of course the rush and sudden belief in near-invincibility had been attractive: being able to watch unseen, eavesdrop within inches of another, spill blood with the knowledge that one’s prey was left with nothing but terrified confusion in their last frightful moments. Glorious power. But back then in those first few months Sanderson had still had the hope that Moriarty’s “Cure” was soon in coming, that he would not be stuck like that freak thief Skinner for the rest of his well-bred life. What was a little blind faith whilst recovering upon a smallish vessel headed to Hong Kong?

 

The faith had not lasted long and neither had the charm of travelling with an immortal prig who could drone on for hours concerning proper grooming habits and lost paintings.

 

Standing amidst the pseudo-elite of British culture, the banished philanthropists, and the so-called royalty of the barbarian natives in the ballrooms and dining halls of the English Consulate, was sometimes more than Sanderson could bear. Thick embroidered silks, crisp, peacock coloured fans, starched Irish linens and high collars, fine polished shoes: Sanderson had never been comfortable with nudity. After having time to think on it, he could not understand how Skinner had gotten on so well in such a state, but when one is raised in the muck of London’s lower caste what else can be expected. Following Dorian like an impotent mongrel, waiting in corners near serving staff or silently racing through rapidly closing doors on private conversations had been wearing thin as an amusing pastime when word finally came from Moriarty himself, carried by an opium-encrusted messenger but M’s pretentious hand writing nonetheless. Sanderson’s unique talents would be needed for something more important than spying on the fabulously rich and those just leeching off the upper echelons, or practicing his new found skill with a blade.

 

He was to become a thief.

 

He was mildly unsettled silently stalking within the confines of the ancient temple, dozens of grotesque primitive pagan spirits glaring down at him from the boundaries of their entombed wall niches. It was hard enough to believe in the power of his own god; the idea that long dead ancestors could control his fate was laughable and only further convinced Sanderson that Moriarty was mad to see any usefulness in this nation of simple-minded peasants. What possible importance could an antique jade dagger have in the configuration of Moriarty’s army? But Sanderson’s profession had never been to question and thus he eyed the decorative blade resting on a small jewelled plinth as a means to an end. It was not until he stopped to consider the lack of armed guards which he had been warned defended the temple day and night that Sanderson heard the soft sound of feet behind him.

 

The kick to the back of his head caught Sanderson off balance, sending him rolling onto the freezing stone floor and exacerbating his already poor disposition. He turned with a growl, sneering at the thin, black swathed figure standing at the ready, barefooted like Reed with the demeanour of an assassin. How the bloody hell had Sanderson been found out?! He was to have some exercise before stealing a national relic? So be it.

 

More punches thrown, more kicks, grunts: the heathen assassin may have been quicker but Sanderson was bigger and invisible and that should have been enough in the Englishman’s opinion. Using weight to his advantage he slammed the smaller man to the ground, taking a beating to his knees and a hard hit to the solar plexus in the process, but Sanderson’s hands held tightly, body pressing down as his fingers curled around the small neck. He angled his thumbs, thinking to have this over with sooner rather than later, then paused in the pressure, dark eyes bulging in an instant.

 

Sanderson was quite sure there was a shank poking against his ribs.

 

“An impasse.” His lip curled. “Am I lucky enough to believe your primitive intellect can understand my words heathen?” The assassin’s black eyes blazed fire.

 

“I understand you perfectly, English dog!”  Sanderson’s forehead furrowed and instinct over-rode good sense as he quickly raised one hand to rip down the black silk face covering. They were suddenly both on their feet before his face could even register recognition. That delicately accented voice, small red lips that had spoken so demurely during her introduction to Dorian at the British Embassy: Sanderson wished she could see the mixture of shock and disgust written across his face. As it stood now the Lady Fah Lo Suee was waiting at the ready, head tilted and eyes moving back and forth, listening for him. One thick lock of raven hair fell loose upon her forehead.

 

“Well then _Lady_ ,” Sanderson cleared his throat, fingers checking his torso for painless wounds. “Is it yourself or _Daddy_ that requires the Yellow Emperor’s jade dagger this evening?”

 

Through the convoluted discussion that followed along with the myriad of threatening gestures—his of course she couldn’t see but seemed to anticipate with her keen senses—Sanderson grudgingly admitted that there was more than a glimmer of intelligence beneath that blank façade; a sinister intelligence that one would not have suspected behind the vibrant colours and strange make-up that sat sedately at the Queen’s Ambassador’s table last week. She knew of Moriarty and Reed knew of her fanatical father Fu Manchu and his reputation amongst the natives.

 

Sanderson would get the blade. Apparently Fah Lo wanted something else.

 

He should never have agreed to it, should have simply taken the blade knowing _his master_ would be pleased no matter what may happen with hers. It was truly out of character, something he did not wish to dwell on but—in inevitable British fashion—considered for quite some time. Sanderson supposed she was attractive…in an exotic, boorish sort of way. She was strong and—he had to admit—rather calculating for such a small woman. Who would have thought that the _princess_ who had been the recipient of so much male attention in the ambassador’s cigar rooms could have sliced all their throats without even a thought for all the poor mistresses left behind.

 

They arranged a meeting one fortnight hence, a moonless bitter night with the scent of dank sea life fluttering on the wind and an unknown substance gelling between his toes. 

 

“You are late.”

 

“I have responsibilities,” she responded, hiding her surprise at his nearness and the floating burlap sack rather well. “You, on the other hand, do not exist.” That stung more than Sanderson cared to admit and he tossed the stained bag at the woman carelessly.

 

“Your exalted Si-Fan are in sore need of training.” He noted her un-amused glare and smirked. “I am surprised that the great Devil Doctor—” her chin rose “—would betroth his only child to a weakling such as _that_.” Sanderson gestured to the sack that Fah Lo was already opening with remarks in that horrid monkey-language of this wretched nation. Never mind that he could feel bruises blossoming across his battered visage and he was lucky to have not broken his leg from an errant kick by the unwanted fiancé. “He should have been an easy mess for you to clean up.” She held the severed head aloft by one bloodied topknot and inclined her head towards his voice.

 

“Yes,” she replied softly. “But unlike you I would not dare to go against my father’s wishes. Unfortunately, we disagreed on **this** matter of my future.” And with that she threw the dead warrior’s head into the ocean.

 

She did not thank him, merely took a moment to watch the water then walked away in imperious fashion, not thinking—no, not caring that he could follow, arrogant enough to believe he would not dispose of her as easily as Xie Quing.

 

Reed ignored her presence for the next two weeks, ignored her dainty walk and serene smiles at men unworthy of her conversation, men like Gray who would chortle at the imagined sexual prowess of such submissive creatures. Sanderson’s years of servitude amidst such exchange did little to prepare him for when Dorian turned the comments on him one night in private after too much local wine. He had little patience for Gray as it was, and while the impostor politician waxed poetically on the true size of the Lady’s bound tits all that held Reed back from smothering the drunken ponce—besides the fact that it would have little to no effect on Dorian’s health—was knowing that Fah Lo would rather torture such an ‘English dog’ than agree to a private tête-à-tête.

 

These thoughts should not have been dwelled on either. Sanderson had a job to do and the chit was not worth his time. Moriarty expected he and Gray to ease the way, to conquer the opium circles and political bootlicks, to allow Moriarty easy access to the wealth of the Orient. Yes, the benefits of what this endeavour promised, _that_ was what Reed should be focused on. Conquering the East.

 

That was not at all what he felt though when the Lady glanced in his direction the next evening as he stood silently behind the tall potted orchids, her black gaze meeting his head on, a cold smirk disrupting her tranquil countenance for a mere moment before accepting an entrée course of quail. For some reason her small movements with the silverware seemed much more important than world domination.


End file.
